


Stairway To Heaven

by shadesoflondon



Category: Shades of London Series - Maureen Johnson
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-22
Updated: 2018-07-31
Packaged: 2019-06-14 05:42:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15381930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadesoflondon/pseuds/shadesoflondon
Summary: After the events of The Shadow Cabinet, things seem fine for the Shades. That is, until, they are faced with a series of dangerous events. In a race against time, the Shades work to take down the twins and keep the worst from happening. Incomplete.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone! This story will be around twenty parts when completed. Thanks for the read, and leave a comment!

Something was buzzing. I was still trapped in that layer of reality between dreaming and waking, and couldn't quite figure out _what_ was happening. A primal part of my brain screamed _alarm_ , so I flopped my hand around on the nightstand, trying to find one. My fingers closed around a phone. With a grunt, I sat up and squinted to read the screen: 7:00 A.M.. The sound had been Jazza texting me.

**You okay, Ror?**

Then, a moment later:

**It's Jazza. I was told that I could text once a day.**

**Could you try for two times? I miss you. XOXO**

I smiled, then frowned. Why hadn't I known about this? Had Thorpe spoken to her without me? I felt stupid. Of course he did. Typing a quick "miss you too," I gently threw the phone somewhere and climbed out of bed. I was still in yesterday's clothes, and my hair was having a wild free-for-all. It would probably be best for everyone if I took a shower.

As I pulled clothes out of the closet, I was careful not to wake Freddie. We now shared a room. The twins were unleashed on London only a week ago, but the entire squad had since moved to a new flat and started what Stephen loved to call a " _full-scale investigation."_ Freddie had practically peed herself with excitement. She had (unsurprisingly) proved important to the case thus far, and I couldn't help but admire her ability to sleep three hours a night and be okay. Was she okay? She consumes twice as much coffee as I usually do, so there's that.

I walked into the bathroom next door. It was small, something that tended to happen when you rented a three bedroom apartment in London. The lights were off, and when I turned them on, the center bulb flickered like a cheap Christmas light. Everything was black and gray and white. As I stepped into the shower, I half expected someone to leap out with a knife and stab me, like in _Psycho._ All of my weird dreams had put me on edge, and I couldn't help but see dead, twisted bodies everywhere. It was this moment that I chose to channel Cousin Diane, pushing out the bad vibes, and only letting the positive energy in.

I climbed out after a few minutes and dressed, patting my head down with a towel. As it turned out, no one stabbed me. My hair didn't really smell like cat food anymore either, but I considered dying it back to brown. The weird crunchy texture was just something else to live with.

The hall was dark and quiet as I headed into the living room. I almost didn't see Stephen sitting on the couch; his white tee blended almost perfectly into the fabric. But there he was, all messy hair and black sweatpants and empty coffee cups. Rain pattered gently on the windows. It was a peaceful picture, and the light from his laptop added to the quiet grayness of the room. Realizing that I had been standing there a little too long, I made my way into kitchen.

There were multiple more empty cups on the counter, and even some on the little breakfast table. He must have stayed up all night. Papers were littered everywhere as well; on the table, counter, floor, and hastily tacked to the wall. I honest to god had no idea how he managed this. We didn't even have a printer. Many of the sheets were handwritten, though, and I picked one up off the counter. His handwriting was short but neat, which I actually wasn't too surprised about. (I could also see him writing in long, overdone cursive, like the men with wigs did in the Pirates of The Caribbean movies. But that was probably just me. )

Getting too lost in my head, I made a weird hum-sigh noise. Stephen looked up and into the kitchen. I cleared my throat, and waved the paper.

"You wrote all of this? Last night?"

He blinked at me slowly.

"Yeah," he said. "Freddie was up with me until a few hours ago, but I told her to get some rest."

I felt a pang of unwanted jealousy in my gut. Really? Now was not the time to be petty. We still had a big search to conduct, things to do, and papers to read. Stephen had been up all night looking for something that could point us to the twins. By the quantity of notes he took, I felt like it was safe to assume that he had gotten somewhere.

He rested his forehead on his palm and watched me with little enthusiasm. I felt my assumption deflate a little.

"It's useless⎯ the notes. All of it." He closed his laptop. "I would see something that would seem relevant, and when I dug deeper, it would turn up nothing. I don't know where to look next."

This was a big deal. It was also bad. Stephen didn't ever admit that he was stuck. I had to be the one to help him fix this, to figure out whatever that needed to be figured out. I could start by sitting on the couch. Doing so, I moved his laptop, and pushed papers aside.

"Alright. Is there anything I can help with?"

"I..." He rubbed his forehead.

"Anything? I haven't been doing much, and it's killing me."

"Yes... There's something you can do," he said, picking up the papers that I had pushed aside. They were glossy, and printed.

"Where did you get those?"

He sorted them into a stack, stood, and picked up the mugs scattered on the coffee table. I didn't know why he couldn't have just refilled the same cup.

"The papers on the table?" He called from the kitchen.

"Yeah?"

I heard the clang of cups being set into the sink.

"A book."

"Wait⎯ you _ripped_ these papers out of a _book_?"

"Yes. I know it's barbaric, but we haven't a printer." He plopped back down next to me, running a hand through his hair.

I laughed at the formality of his tone, though it really wasn't that funny. Things were rough if Stephen was destroying books. It seemed like we'd just have to dig a bit deeper for this case, though I wasn't quite sure how to do that once you ran out of ideas. It seemed almost as if a week of official investigating was a long time for Stephen. After all, we identified and caught the Ripper copycat in a single night. With Freddie on hand, we should've had an even easier time sniffing out clues. That was not the case. The whole squad had done an excessive amount of research, and to be honest, our mental resources were running quite low. We practically ravaged the late Clover's magical bookstore, went to every tarot reader we could find (which was a lot), and visited any ghost that we thought could help (which was none). There was only so much information available on Greek pagan ceremonies, and I was pretty sure we had found every relevant thing there was to find. It's just that none of it made sense.

I looked at the mess of timelines and notes that Stephen had written. He worked _too_ hard. It wasn't unusual, of course, for him to take majority of the work, but it really wasn't healthy. Especially on such a " _high-profile"_ case. Again, Stephen's words. I don't even think he was using that phrase correctly.

I tried to focus on more productive things. Things that would help: The Mysteries. Grapes. Greek people. Hercules. That decent Disney Hercules movie. It took a moment, but I realized that I knew nothing valuable. I thought some more, sipping my tea, but still couldn't beat my thoughts into a useful shape. Stephen was watching me. I don't know if he even realized it, but I sure did. I thought a little harder. The sound of footsteps snapped me out of my thinking session, and Callum appeared in the hall entry.

"Morning," he said. "Boo or Freddie up?"

Stephen turned away from me, and it was only then that I realized our knees had been touching.

"No. Just us."

Callum made a noise in the back of his throat. He frowned too, taking in the scene of the kitchen.

" _Mate_ ," he stepped forward. "What _happened?_ "

"Notes. A shitton of them. They're all useless." Stephen seemed irked to be asked this again. Callum walked to the kitchen counter, and slowly sifted through the piles. I could actually see a bit of granite peek out from underneath.

"And how long did this take?"

"All night."

"All night? Freddie won't be too happy that she missed out."

I stood up, setting my tea on the table. It was cold now anyways.

"So, what do we do next?"

Callum looked to me. "I'm going to work," he said, turning to our overcrowded coat rack. I watched him grab a jacket and stick his muscled arms through the sleeves. Stephen nodded from beside me, adjusting his glasses.

"Keep your eyes open for any unusual activity," he said. Ring me if anything appears out of the ordinary." He watched Callum with a weird expression. I flopped him on the arm once with my oversized sweater sleeve, and then again when he didn't look at me. It took four flops for him to glance back at me.

"And what are _we_ going to do?"

"We," he said standing, "are going to read. We've only gotten through a fourth of the books we've collected."

This was true. I glanced at the large pile of books lying by the windows. They all seemed to smile at me, like evil little word boxes. Reading them should be easier with the help of Boo and Freddie, but I wasn't sure if Freddie was due to wake up in the next fourteen hours. Granny Deveaux's third husband Phil actually used to do something similar. He was a self proclaimed "nocturnalist," sleeping by day and channel surfing by night. That may have been the reason why there was a husband number four. I mean, I can't blame Gran, there's only so many adult-sized Batman onesies that a woman can put up with. Before I came here, one of my biggest (and stupidest) fears was actually ending up with someone who wore adult onesies. I was almost glad to have something else to think about now.

When Callum left, it was just us and the empty gathering room. I could tell that Stephen hated being out of action. Thorpe had put him on house arrest on the grounds of "bed-rest," but that didn't make Stephen any less aggravated. If you asked me, he probably needed the down time. I'd only been in it for a month or so, but life on the force was exhausting.

Stephen yawned. I jumped on this.

"Go," I said. "Get some sleep. Take a nap. _Rest ya' bones_. Whatever wipes that dead look off of your face."

He shook his head.

"I have to tell⎯"

" _I'll_ tell the others what you found. Which is nothing. Please just go, Stephen."

He stood, and glanced between the mess that was the living room and the disaster that was the kitchen. A sleepy Stephen was a snappy Stephen, and that was just about the last thing I needed right now. Plus, it's not like we'd find anything in the next hour anyways. He seemed to realize this, and turned towards the hall. I looked down at the papers again as he left.

There was a thump and then⎯

" _Ow."_

Boo stood in the doorway, clutching her head. From the way Stephen was rubbing his chin, it seemed like they had collided.

"Well someone's in a hurry," she said, gently shoving her way through the door frame. Stephen said nothing. He didn't even glance back before completely leaving the room. Boo gave me a look as if to say: " _what happened?"_ But I had no idea. Stephen was probably tired. Or grumpy. Grumpier than usual, at least.

Boo shrugged it off. Her legs were covered in a weird pattern that I realized was snake skin— or yoga pants made to look that way. Probably the newest fashion. Or something "kinda wacky but kinda chill" that she found in a seven year old Macy's catalog. Sometimes it was hard to tell with Boo.

She turned to survey the mess, whistling at the junk.

"Stephen?" She asked. I nodded.

"Stephen."

Boo nudged the book stack with her foot.

"I guess we should work on these?"

She reached for a dusty volume, one that struck me more as 'estate sale' than 'magical book.' She thumbed through it. I could practically see her agitation grow.

"Bloody– I don't even _know_ half of these words."

"What words?" I asked, pulling myself off of the couch.

"Like, this one: chthonic. Am I even saying that right?"

I made my mouth into a bubble and slowly exhaled.

"I don't know. I guess this is what we use Google for…"

Boo snapped the book shut and dropped it onto the coffee table.

"You know what? We're going to go out, get some food, come back, and then work, yeah? I can't read all of this without food."

There was an deep, audible " _noo"_ from down the hallway, and the sound of a door closing. I snickered.

"I have to agree with Stephen on this one," I said. "Reading these suck, but it's best to just rip the band-aid off."

Boo twirled her hair around her finger. "Fine," she sighed. "But I call the ramen."

There was another loud noise from the hall as Boo went into the kitchen. I was kind a bit concerned now. Deciding to be helpful, I went to investigate the noise. Stephen's door was closed but unlocked, so I opened it, suppressing the hope that he was shirtless.

He was, sadly, fully clothed. And kneeling in middle of the room, papers everywhere, as if Benouville's singular Office Depot had decided to blow itself up in our apartment. I frowned, and walked up behind him.

"When did this happen? I was in here just last night and it was a lot less… this," I said, gesturing.

"That's because _this_ just happened," He said, glancing up at me for a moment, and returned to sifting through the paper. I pushed some sheets aside and made a little seat for myself on the floor. This room was smaller than the one he had in the old flat, but had dark matching furniture and larger windows. Ikea would love it as much as Stephen loved maps, which was a lot.

I watched him stand, and make a small frustrated noise as if realizing something. He paced over to his bed by the window, pulled a box out from underneath, and dumped its contents onto the bed sheets.

"You're looking for something," I said.

"Yes."

He stopped rummaging and turned back toward me.

"Have you seen photos of our three original termini lying around?"

I blinked. "Photos? I don't think so." I twirled a sheet of paper with my finger.

"Am I allowed to ask?"

"Well," he said, fishing something out of his pocket, "When I was heading to my room a minute ago, I realized something." He squatted in front of me.

"You realized something about the termini?"

"Yes. Look," he said, reaching for my hand. I swallowed as he placed our two current termini in my palm. We both squinted at them. I was super lost until the room brightened, allowing me to make out a familiar pattern in the stone.

"Wait-"

He looked up at me and grinned a little.

"These are the same termini, aren't they? Stephen, you genius bastard."

"They're all nearly identical shades of gray, but Thanatos -the smaller one- I remember had a unique hairline fracture."

I turned the stones over in my palm. "Yeah, I see it," I said. The crack was small, but it was there. "And you're sure that this other stone is Hypnos?"

He leaned into me a little, analyzing the stones in my hand.

"I mean, it appears the same," he said lowly. "And if one made it out of the Thames and into Jane's hands, why couldn't the other?"

He did have a point there.

"How do you think Jane retrieved them? Magic?"

Stephen regarded me, then the stones, before replying.

"Possibly," he said, sitting down completely. "It's not conventional, but… it makes more sense than the alternative."

There was a knock at the door, and Boo poked her head in. "Sorry to break this up, but I can't do this reading thing right now. I'm going out to find another ghost for our map. Be back in a couple hours?"

Stephen leaned back and sighed. "Yeah, alright," he said. Be careful. Tell Callum the same thing if you see him."

"Yes, tell Callum to use _protection_ ," I said wiggling my eyebrows at her. She groaned and shut the door. I looked back to Stephen. He rolled his eyes, and took the termini from my hand.

"I'll do more digging," he said, placing them in his pocket.

"I bet you will. _After_ that nap."

"Rory, I'm fine."

"I know you're fine, but you won't be if you don't sleep."

He only stared at me. I stared back. If this was some sort of power move, I wasn't going to be intimidated. The clouds outside shifted, and sunlight slanted through the window right behind him, coloring the top of his dark hair golden. My breathing slowed as I took the moment in; just us, no world in peril or impending doom.

"You know," I said quietly, "I don't think you've worn hair gel all week. It's different."

He nodded, as if acknowledging his lack of hair product.

"I don't wear hair gel."

"What? What _do_ you use then?"

He looked down, then back up at me, his head tilted.

"A lady never tells."

"That was a _joke_ ," I grinned. "Stephen, you just made a _joke_."

He snorted. "I think we've been over this before: I _can_ be something other than serious, it's just not the most professional."

"Really," I raised my eyebrows at him. "I doubt that this 'Serious Stephen' thing is all a ruse."

"It's not a _ruse,_ Rory, it's me finding a balance between work and other things."

"Mmm. Callum hates it, you know. He makes bar jokes about you when he's especially agitated. It's a bit upsetting to watch."

"Are they good?"

"No."

He shook his head.

"And, Stephen?" I asked. "I've been meaning to talk to you about this. Sorry that it's so early in the morning, but… I know that we're technically even with the whole life-saving thing. You saved me, I saved you, and so on, but I still don't feel like we're even. And I don't think I ever said thank you for doing what you did. You _died_ , albeit accidentally, and all I did was cut my arm.

Stephen opened his mouth, then closed it.

"So, um, thanks," I said, standing up. I paused. "I'm going to let you get some sleep now. I'll wake you up when Callum and Boo get back."

He nodded as I walked into the hallway and closed the door. We had a lot of things to do, a lot of things to read, and any guilt or other stray emotion that I felt would just be a distraction. We would find the answer to everything and take down the twins. I just needed to keep my head in the game.


	2. Chapter 2

Stephen woke in time for lunch. I made ham sandwiches and we ate them quietly, stewing in our own thoughts. Afterwards, he stood, paced about the living room, and sat back down. He did this a few more times before stopping to stare outside. I could see the gears in his head turning. There was a deliberateness in his manner now, a method to his madness.

I stood too, instantly feeling more productive. Maybe there was something to this pacing thing. Following him to his place at the windows, I looked out into the neighboring courtyard. It wasn't much of a view. There was a pool, which was covered, and frosty looking chairs that were stacked a few feet away. Patches of sidewalk met closely cropped grass, exuding an amount of bleakness that only summertime shopping malls could rival. I mean, at least this place was cheap.

Stephen bit his lip. His eyes were untrained on some unknown spot in the distance, assessing and reassessing information that he hadn't yet found the courtesy to share with me. That was fine. I watched him bite his lip some more before sitting back down, stepping over and around the papers littered on everything to get to the couch.

He tore his eyes away to glance at me for a moment. I glanced back. This was all he needed to start pacing again, walking from one end of the room to another. Whatever it was that he was contemplating, it was pretty serious. He rubbed his neck. His temples. Ran a hand through his hair. In the matter of a minute, he went through about every hand movement conceivable to man, moving to the tempo of Kesha's _Tik Tok_ all the while. I've seen him think before, but this was different. It was concentrated, and intense, and very therapeutic to watch. I waited for him to explain, but his focus stayed on whatever currently occupied his mind. Directing my attention elsewhere, I focused on the mess around me. I would tidy this up. Shuffling all of the papers together was a lot like trying to shuffle an Uno deck, I learned, except the cards were much bigger, and covered every possible surface in the room.

Stephen and I worked out a little dance- he'd walk, and I'd climb around him, picking up stray papers as I went. When that was said and done, I sorted everything into stacks. The whole process took approximately twenty minutes. I didn't know if that was enough time for him to sort his thoughts out, but I was getting antsy.

"Hey?" I said from my seat on the couch. He kept walking, rubbing his forearms. Talking wasn't going to cut it. I had never seen anyone this submerged in their thoughts before. Attempting to get his attention, I moved into his path and forced his hands to his sides.

"Hi," I tried again, "what's going on with you?"

He stared at me blankly, like he couldn't quite process what I was saying. My hands lingered on his. The skin there felt warm. Alive. Adrenaline dropped into my gut like a stone, like the feeling you get right before boarding a roller coaster. I released his arms and backed away. This earned a few blinks from him, and then a bit more as he zoned back into reality. He straightened his glasses.

"Sorry. I was thinking."

"About?"

"The twins," he said, stepping forward. "How they. . ." he paused. Backtracked. "Sid said they would see you again. The bugger was smug about it. The two of them have a plan involving you, and have had it since before they did that ritual in 1973. That has to be it- they didn't have time before they woke last week to plot one."

His eyebrows were furrowed, and I could see his eyes going fuzzy again. This was obviously a topic of great contemplation. "They are interested in you, Rory, in your abilities, but why? What do they need you for? But _not_ you. . ."

He took his glasses off and pinched the bridge of his nose. I looked up at him, into his eyes, trying to piece together what he was saying. It didn't make any sense. He put his glasses back on and started over.

"They've had a plan since 1973, right?" His gaze leveled with mine. I nodded. "That's why they even bothered with the rites. No plan, no purpose. Sid said last week that he would see you again, which means that he had-"

"You guys aren't reading?"

Freddie stood in the hall entry, her hair poofier than usual. Stephen stopped talking. He backed up a respectable few steps and cleared his throat. Something about that irked me. I tried to understand where he was coming from with all of the theory stuff, but my brain felt fried. The pieces wouldn't fit into a coherent puzzle.

It didn't really make any sense for him either, I don't think. The pacing gave it away. We were grasping at straws, desperate to find a lead, trying too hard to make things make sense. It felt gross. Like that ice cream cone you try really hard to finish before it melts into a puddle of goop, except we started with the goop, and were trying to make it into ice cream with our pure force of will.

Freddie pushed the couches aside and sorted the books into stacks. Stephen went into the kitchen and started messing with the kettle. Deciding to look productive too, I sort of aimlessly leafed through his notes, hoping to find some important yet overlooked detail. Last year, back in Louisiana, I took a U.S. History class. My teacher had a weird thing for Nicolas Cage, so she'd play _National Treasure_ whenever we had time to burn. This kind of reminded me of that. Papers everywhere, government stuff, things with historical significance, that unique brand of cinematic urgency. Unlike the movie, I didn't uncover a centuries-old secret by reading stuff. I uncovered nothing.

Soon, the three of us were seated criss-cross-applesauce on the living room floor. Going through the books was a dull, boring process, but I was just thankful that we ditched notes. By three my brain felt like Thanksgiving mashed potatoes. Wexford made me an expert book-skimmer, but the sheer density of this text made me want to crawl into Stephen's bed and go to sleep. That was a thought I came back to a lot when things seemed dull.

I looked at Stephen during the most boring patches. He was laid out on his back next to me, thumbing through each page with a focused precision. I adopted his attitude and started flipping through the rest of my book, skimming for words that seemed relevant. The hours seemed to go by quicker this way, and by six, we had gone through a fourth of the pile. It was six-thirty before one of us actually spoke.

"Guys," said Freddie. "There's mention of the Shadow Cabinet here."

Stephen and I both looked up from our books, and I crawled over to where Freddie perched in the corner. The sound of my cracking bones was deafening. I hadn't moved in hours. Physical activity wasn't my favorite thing to partake in, but it felt pretty good just then. Freddie read out loud as I approached. On her lap laid a large, heavy tome with thick black text that looked unnervingly similar to comic sans.

"Cabinet of Shadow. . . stones. . . things we already know," she trailed off. "Here," she pointed. " _The Cabinet came about in a time of great spiritual upheaval, and with it, the freedom of all people from evil. It is believed by many to have reached peak popularity with the Rosicrucianism movement. This may have been when it became formally established, but the concept is commonly believed by conspirators to be as old as the Prehistoric Sahara. It has since fallen from modern awareness._ "

"So it's not really a _lead_ ," Freddie said, "but it could be something. I'll look through this book closely and see if there's anything else on the Cabinet."

Stephen flipped onto his elbows. There was a lot of information to unpack here, and I figured he would be all about that. Apparently not. He seemed mildly perturbed, but his usual curiosity was not there. Something was off. Our earlier conversation threw him off-kilter, and seemingly enough so that his undying urge to explain things to me went quiet.

"Freddie," he said, "I know that it's interesting to read about, but that organization is complete and utterly bogus. I don't think it will help us find the twins."

"I know. It's just that this is the only quasi-relevant thing I've seen in all of the books I've checked."

"There are still more books left, you know."

Freddie responded with a noise that made me think of a sad puppy. She sat in thought for a moment before flipping to something at the back of the book. Stephen was probably right about the Shadow Cabinet, but Freddie wasn't wrong to be intrigued. I patted Freddie's book to get her attention.

"The Cabinet is just a bunch of rumors, yet the creator of those rumors acknowledged ghosts, didn't they? There could be more, _real_ information like that hidden in this book that you accidentally skimmed over."

Freddie nodded. She took a long, deep swig of her tea and leaned into me.

"That's what I thought about them being right about the stones. But now I don't think so. At least as far as this book is concerned," she said. "There's nothing here about the Shadow Cabinet. Besides the little section I read, obviously, but nothing elsewhere."

I craned my head to see the cover from under her hand. It was the same book that Boo had picked up earlier. The cover was prune purple, torn, and missing its dust jacket. A dark, fine spray coated the surface, and I hoped for Freddie's sake that it was someone's coffee. Overall, it gave me bad mojo.

"You're sure?" I asked.

"This book actually has an index," she said. "I just read it, and found only one reference to something important: that page."

"What if the organization used to exist? But doesn't anymore?"

She shook her head, curls a-bouncing.

"If there was a society that's task was as vital as keeping London out of danger, then it wouldn't just disappear."

This was probably true. I had no other ideas. Seeing my blank expression, some of Freddie's excitement fizzled out.

"You're going to find nothing but dead ends," Stephen broke in. "Trust me. I've been there."

He went back to reading. Freddie gave me a look that conveyed an alarming amount of irritation and set the book aside with a loud _thump._ She reached for another one. I gave her an awkward half-smile and went back to where I was sitting before, careful not to knock my tea over.

I felt Stephen's gaze on me. I couldn't decide if that made me happy or nervous. Maybe both? He was eyeing me a bit dolefully, in the kind of way you might look at someone if they don't know you're looking. I feigned a sneeze to glance back at him, but I was terrible at it, so he focused back on his work. I watched him anyway. He adjusted his glasses, and as he did so, the world turned a sludgy grey, white, and blue, like my head was dipped in liquid Antarctica.

I couldn't breathe. I was trying, but the sludge was in my lungs, in my chest, and I saw⎯ Stephen.

We were in what looked like a park, but I couldn't feel the sun. Everything was blurry. Stephen was sitting next to me in his police uniform, sans hat, and his shirt looked damp. I struggled to make out the rest of the picture, as it was already fading, but couldn't grasp anything except the image of him and the knowledge that we were _there_ , wherever _there_ was. It was important. I was certain.

Air came rushing into my lungs so fast that I almost forgot I was suffocating. My throat felt raw. Everything was dark. I felt hands on my shoulders and face, floor below my back, and a wall beside me. There was a pounding on one side of my head, suggesting that I fell on it. I blinked my eyes open to see Stephen on top of me. He looked a good bit panicked too, which even in a near delirious state, managed to make me feel pretty good.

"Rory. Rory. _Rory_ ," he said, shaking me. He must have been saying my name this whole time. I heard Freddie from somewhere behind him.

"Do I need to do CPR?"

"No," I said scratchily. "I think I'm okay."

I looked straight up at Stephen. He paused a moment, then leaned back onto his knees and offered me a hand up. My own hand was shaking, but I took it and sat against the wall. He half straddled, half kneeled over me. It was a bit awkward, but in a good way, though he was only checking to make sure I wasn't going to die. When he was convinced that I would indeed live, he leaned back and apologized. I stared at him.

"What happened?"

Freddie shrugged. "I don't know. I just saw you drop."

Stephen actually turned around to look at her. I couldn't see his expression, but she shrugged an apology. At least he knew what it felt like to almost die.

"It looked like you starting choking," he said levelly. "And then you just- dropped. Only for a few seconds."

"I didn't make any noise? Because my throat feels raw. Like I was screaming."

They both shook their heads. In all honesty, it seemed kind of like a panic attack. I'd had only one; when we went into the sewer last week, but the feeling was already ingrained in my brain. This was similar, yet different. Too many things were happening. There was too much stress. My body was trying to do _something_ about it, and I guess my subconscious was stupid enough to think that delusions and self-harm were the right way to go. I told Stephen and Freddie as much.

"Well, whatever it was, I hope it doesn't happen again," Stephen said. "Boo texted me a minute ago saying that she was on her way with takeout. Callum's on his way, too. We can tell them about it when they get here. For now, let's just. . . pick up the books. Is that alright?"

"Yeah. Hold on." I got to my feet and walked to the kitchen, rubbing the back of my head. Stephen watched me go before standing.

About two minutes later, the room was properly rearranged. I had an ice-pack. Things were better. Callum and Boo were going to help us tomorrow with all of the reading, or I was going to lose it for real. There was too much for just three people. The chances of us finding anything were slim anyways, but if Stephen could stick it out, I could too. I wondered what would happen if the twins just disappeared. Would we consider it a cold-case? Was this even a _formal_ case? It was fronted by a bunch of teenagers, frankly, and a guy young enough for his gray hair to be considered premature. Like Anderson Cooper.

By the time Boo arrived with the food, I was nearly hungry enough to eat the crushed-to-bits crackers in Freddie's bag. Boo insisted we wait for Callum to get to the flat before digging in, but I grabbed a dish and filled it with spicy pork anyways. We were all gathered on the couches when he finally walked through the foyer.

"You eating without me?" Callum asked, shrugging off his coat. Boo smirked from her spot next to me and tossed a paper plate at him. He caught it and proceeded to attack the chow mein with a stray spoon.

"What are you _doing_?" Freddie asked him.

"Chowing down. I've had a long day. Good day, but long day."

Stephen, seated on my other side, looked up from his box of fried rice and raised both eyebrows.

"What, exactly, qualifies as a 'good day' to Callum?" He said, making a gesture with his chopsticks that made me wish I knew how to use them.

"Zapped a ghost," said Callum. "Full on _zapped_. Poof. Nutter was gone."

"Which ghost?"

"That crazy dancing arse at Liverpool Street station. The one Rory wouldn't terminate."

"What?" I said as he took a seat on the loveseat across from me. "It wasn't right. Plus I would've thrown up or something."

We were all quiet for a moment. I set my empty plate onto the coffee table.

"You know what?" I asked Callum. "We should have a field trip sometime. I have some unfinished business with that Resurrection Man."

Stephen choked on his rice. This was probably something I should have mentioned to him. Maybe I was tired, or maybe I had just stopped caring so much, but the thought of him getting upset about me meeting someone sounded ridiculous. I mean, he intentionally crashed his car. He could deal with this. It took a moment for him to recover, and once he did, I couldn't actually tell if he was upset or surprised. His usually expressive eyebrows gave no indication.

"What do you know about the _Resurrection_ Man?"

I nudged my empty plate around with my knee as Stephen lowered his takeout box. Boo watched us and shoveled rice into her mouth.

"Well, he does not resurrect people. But he _is_ an ass. He locked me in a mausoleum. Made a very poor attempt to set me on fire. Also has this walking ball of human⎯

"Wait _,_ he did _what?_ "

"Rude things. Dangerous things."

"Well, I see _that._ He's bad news. I'm guessing you found him in my notes?"

"Yeah," I nodded. Stephen nodded too and stirred the remaining rice in his box.

"And how did you get yourself out of that one?"

"Me," Freddie piped up. "Well, me and Jerome. Do you know how Jerome and I met?"

"Well enough."

"Well, it was then that we basically followed her to the cemetery. She was yelling at the Resurrection Man- Jim? Or at something. If it makes you feel any better, Stephen, she wasn't actually on fire."

Callum snorted and shared a look with Boo. I chose to ignore them. As glad as I was that Stephen was back and the gang was together, the two of them had shared too many _looks._ Their business was their business, but Callum gave Boo enough eyebrow to smother a man. That should be, like, a federal offense.

"So," Boo said, "I found two new ghosts today. They're both on Craven Street, not far from Waterloo Bridge."

Stephen nodded in understanding. I pretended to know where that was. Boo started picking at her neon green press-ons, and I cleared my throat, not sure of how to start. I was a pretty gifted talker, but for once, words eluded me.

"So, I think I had another panic attack today?"

"Like, full on loony?" Boo asked after a beat. She looked up from her nails. Her penciled brows were furrowed into pointy, worried lines.

"No. More like. . . I choked on my own spit and then passed out."

"Are you alright?" Callum asked. "How long was it?"

"About five seconds," Stephen pitched in. "This wouldn't be as concerning if she hadn't choked and hit her head. If this happens again, who knows how long you'll be under without oxygen?"

He directed this last part at me for some reason. I wasn't sure how he wanted me to feel about this situation, but it surely wasn't anything nice. It wasn't like anything could be done to prevent it.

"Wait," Callum said, "you couldn't breathe? For how long?"

"Well, so, it wasn't really a _panic_ attack. That's just the umbrella term I'm using because I don't know what it actually is. This happened last week too, when we were putting the stone in the sewer, remember? It felt different today though, like I was fully submerged into what I was seeing. I kind of choked too, I guess. It felt like there was sludge in my lungs-"

"You said you saw things?" Stephen cut in. He angled toward me. I looked down at my hands, aware of everyone watching me. I hadn't exactly meant for that piece of information to slip out, but there it was. Maybe I'd be put under house arrest now. Be asked to stay on the couch so they could watch me and make sure I didn't accidentally kill myself.

"Yeah," I said. "It wasn't real. I know that."

"But _what_ was it?"

"I. . ." This was the last checkpoint. I could tell them what I saw and risk couch confinement, or I could lie and walk away.

"The Ripper. Newman. Pictures of him doing things. Things I couldn't possibly see, like him stalking his victims and stuff."

Stephen leaned back and exhaled audibly. I felt bad for pulling the Ripper card, but I knew from personal experience that whenever I brought it up, people stopped talking and nodded along to whatever I said.

"I hope it doesn't happen again," Freddie said. "I've only heard about him, but he didn't seem. . . nice."

"Yeah. He wasn't," Boo said. Freddie frowned.

"You've met him?"

"We all have," she replied matter-of-factly. It occurred to me that we never informed Freddie of this. "He threw me in front of a car."

Stephen raised his hand apprehensively.

"He injected me with a deadly dosage of insulin."

I took that it was my turn to say something.

"He stabbed me."

It seemed obvious after I said it, but Freddie nodded nonetheless. She seemed a bit taken aback. Callum kept quiet, and I remembered his guilt about hesitating to give Newman the terminus. I didn't entertain the thought for long; Freddie needed to know the full story. I explained it to her.

Dinner went much smoother after that. I learned that Callum's middle name was Bingsley- a surprise, but not an unpleasant one. There was a feeling in my chest, and for once, it wasn't bad. Everyone was alive. Everyone was together. We were sitting around a table, and eating takeout, and making fun of Callum. If this was my new life, it wasn't so bad.

Stephen made me help him clean up after dinner, which I didn't mind that much. He was in a good mood. I told him stories about my old cat Pow Pow, which he listened to courteously, and he told me stories about Regina. I found that I liked her. She made some bad decisions, and they led her to a dark place, but she also kind of reminded me of myself. Everyone made mistakes. Especially when you had parents like theirs.

I thought about that as I went to bed. Stephen turned out pretty good. He _was_ good. His parents didn't deserve him, and Regina realized that. Ihoped she found peace. I hoped he'd find it too, and decided that if it came down to it, I'd fight for that.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Short chapter this week. A new one should be posted soon!

We were all lounging around the next morning when Thorpe came in. In the days after Stephen returned, I saw less and less of him. He wasn’t doing Stephen’s job anymore; he was running around and organizing things. I could tell by his brisk pace and the fact that he just barged in that some kind of exchange was about to happen. Apparently, this involved me. 

Boo and Freddie cleared out of the way as Thorpe set a fancy briefcase onto the kitchen counter. I thought that maybe he’d show me something inside, but I was ushered to the couch instead. I sat down and he sat across from me, shoving sorted papers away from his spot on the coffee table. He placed the briefcase on the floor next to my leg. When I looked back into the kitchen, everyone was gone. My fingers did an awkward little dance in my lap.

“There’s been no news?” I ventured.

“No, there’s been no sight of either of them reported.”

“What about the over government CCTV?” 

“Nothing.”

It was kind of impossible to be in London (and alive) and avoid the CCTV, but I knew from my time here that nothing was unachievable. With our warm greetings aside, we could focus on more important things. Thorpe straightened his tie. This was the universal getting-down-to-business motion, so I made sure that I was situated in an equally sharp position.

“Well,” he said. “I’m here because we need to talk. Your parents, your identity- all of it needs to be straightened out.”

“Oh.” 

I let my shoulders relax a little. It was about time we discussed my poor parents. 

“Does this mean I can talk to them?”

“I’ll get to that.”

He leaned back. I leaned back too so that we were eye level. Thorpe wasn’t a huge guy, which was something I remembered only when we were next to each other. He was just someone I processed as a large, foggy mass of intimidation. Our time together last week helped me clear away some of that misinterpretation, but that didn’t make him any less shadowy and imposing. His signature Thorpe vagueness was in full swing: the gray hair, suit, and forward personality. I have to admit that it's grown on me. The only truly  _ unique  _ thing about him was the head-tilting thing he did before speaking- which was what he was doing right now.

“You need a job,” he started. Seeing that I wouldn’t object, he continued.

“Stephen works with the police, and Callum works in the Underground. Boo is about start a job in the Underground as well. You can either join her-” he produced a pamphlet from the inside of his suit jacket- “or you can do something else. You could do a patrol; wander around and find ghosts. Get rid of the ones that are dangerous. But you would only make about living wage, which isn’t the most desirable thing in London.”

I wasn’t sure how much “living wage” was, but his tone implied that it was, in fact, very undesirable. 

“Is there anything else I could do?” I asked.

“You could get police training like Stephen,” he offered.

“And about how long would that take?”

“Two years, give or take a few months. Stephen was a special case. My higher-ups were desperate to get him on the field. . .” Thorpe patted around the inside of his jacket again. Realizing that there was no more paper, he stopped and handed me the single pamphlet. It was the one that Boo had a few weeks ago. I flipped through it and nothing seemed very exciting. There were pictures of people pointing flashlights, waving at Tube pedestrians, and statistics on the number of deaths in the Underground every year. Maybe the Underground was Boo’s cup of tea, but it wasn’t mine. Thorpe sensed my disdain. 

“There  _ is _ another idea I’ve been working on. I haven’t run it by Stephen yet, but I don’t think he’d be opposed to it.”

“Oh. . ?” 

“I could help you set up a telephone line. If regular people had access to this squad’s resources, you may be able to locate more violent spirits. There would be duds of course, but then you could safely inform people that they weren’t haunted. Something would have to be done about the phone’s ability to be tracked. Regulations would have to be set. You probably shouldn’t show up at a first-time caller’s home with a terminus, for instance. You’d need to verify that they were haunted beforehand and that the ghost posed a threat.”

“Wait.” I stopped him.  “You’re suggesting that we have a ghost hunter hotline? Like in  _ Ghostbusters _ ?

“I. . . suppose I am.”

“Well, you know Stephen, which is why I’m confused. He would most certainly  _ not  _ be okay with this.”

“I’m not proposing  _ now _ ,” he said. “When this whole Sid and Sadie thing blows over, you will have the rest of your career to figure out. I’m offering a solution to your dilemma. And Freddie’s, if she’s interested.”

He splayed his palms as if he was presenting something.

“Okay, okay,” I said. “I’m not opposed to it. I just think Stephen might be.    Plus. . . how would the salary thing work? Would we get a commission pay?”

“No. You’re technically a government worker, and this would technically count as a public safety service. I could get your salary raised to something close to Stephen’s. As far as your public image goes, you would need to pitch yourselves as a nonprofit business or organization. The more squad members you have, the better, but that’s something that will happen over time anyway.”

“That sounds fine,” I replied, “except Stephen is a bona fide, certified police officer. Unless you want him to go all undercover cop?”

“I think he should decide his own role in this,” Thorpe said. He paused to rub his forehead.

“But you’re right. It wouldn’t be good if someone hired him once, and then later saw him in uniform. I still have to work out the kinks. I need to talk to my supervisor too, and see what he thinks. Nothing is guaranteed.” 

He reached for his briefcase and sat it in his lap. The latches clicked as he undid them, but there was no cool suction noise like in the movies. Inside sat a lot of paperwork. He pulled out two small cards and closed the case back up. 

“Here,” he said handing them to me. Upon taking them, I realized that they weren’t cards, but IDs. One of them looked normal, with a thick laminate coating and bright font. The other looked similar to the police ID that Stephen liked to flash around. To my absolute horror, they used my old driver's license picture on both, so one could safely say that I looked like a medium-sized child. My real name was printed in large type at the top of each. That could mean two things: I was no longer considered a missing person, or I would not be considered a missing person for much longer. 

“I’m going by my real name?” I asked him.

“Yes. You’ll talk to your parents soon. You can be back in the public eye after that.”

“And how soon is soon?”

“I’m not sure yet,” he said. He gestured to the IDs with his chin. “One of those is for everyday use. The other is in case you need access to a certain level of federal files, or if it comes down to it, a crime scene. Your age has also been pushed up a few months to give you full legal mobility.”

“Okay,” I said. “This is good. It’s progress.”

He made a noise of acknowledgement. It was a very un-Thorpey sound, so I was thrown off for a few seconds. The old Rory wasn’t very good with government stuff or police stuff or people who looked even mildly threatening. Now I think I was becoming sort of friendly with someone who seemed like they stole their personality from a rock and stuck it in a suit. We were both quiet for a minute as I stewed in that.

“Would you consider allowing me to talk to my parents?” I broke in. “It would be an actual, visible step forward.”

“Rory-”

“You know it’s true. The fact that I’m hiding in this flat with my hair the color of old pizza isn’t helping anyone.”

“It’s also not  _ hurting _ anyone, Rory. It’s actually what you would be doing anyway, because it’s the safest option right now.”

I was frustrated because he was right. That didn’t mean I shouldn’t talk to my parents. I’ve always been fairly independent, but this wasn’t independence. They were probably worried out of their minds that I was kidnapped by a gang of Ripper sympathizers, or left at the bottom of the Thames. That was completely not alright. I tried telling this to Thorpe, but he cut me off.

“I know what they think, and I’ve assured them that you’re safe.”

“You’ve assured- you’ve been in contact with them?”

“From the start,” he said. He took in my bad dye job, my slightly oversized clothes, my bloodshot eyes. I guess it made sense that he had been talking to them. He’s talked to basically everyone who’s been in my life recently.

“Look. I will call them and see when they can meet with you. When that happens, you can’t tell them anything except that you’re safe and under government protection. Do you understand?”

I nodded. 

“I mean it,” he said, standing. He grabbed his briefcase and headed for the door. I couldn’t help but smile as he left.

Everyone slowly trickled back into the living area after Thorpe was gone. Callum made a huge batch of scrambled eggs, which we ate crammed together in the kitchen. Boo and I shared a plate due to the sad lack of dishes. I didn’t really mind any of this. Meals were something of a coming-together event for us, where everyone dropped what they were doing to stand around and talk about nothing in particular. It was especially nice after a long day of reading. 

Afterward, Freddie and I washed the plates off. Stephen hung back with us to debate with Freddie about some sort of hallucinogenic Greek mushroom. Or at least this was what I gathered from their conversation- it was about a variety of fungi, and they all might have had something to do with the kykeon. His phone chimed as I scrubbed the last dish. He read the screen and looked up at me, waving the phone a little.

“Thorpe says he called your parents. Naturally, they want to meet you as soon as possible. He told them the Wexford courtyard tomorrow at 8:00 A.M.”

I practically deflated in relief. There wasn’t much I could really say, but I think seeing them would be enough to help me find some closure. They needed to know that I was safe and staying in London. 

“You’re sure this is what you want?” Stephen asked. He was seated on the island behind me, so I turned to face him. Positioned like this, our height difference was so great that it was silly.

“I know that we’ve talked about this before, but once you see your parents tomorrow, there’s no going back.”

“I’m sure,” I replied. “I would go crazy in Louisiana. I would slip up and talk about ghosts. . . and people would treat me like my aura-seeing cousin. I don’t want that.”

“I guarantee you there are people with the Sight in Louisiana,” he said. He held his hands up at my expression.

“I’m not trying to invalidate your feelings. I was just saying that you could find other Shades closer to your family.”

“I know what you’re  _ saying _ , Stephen, and I appreciate the sentiment. I realize that you think I’m being reckless, but I know what I’m doing. You can talk to Freddie about mushrooms or whatever now.”

“Oh, no, that’s quite alright-” Freddie finished stacking the plates away. “I’m just leaving. Things to read-” 

Freddie swiped her book off of the countertop and left. I wiped the soap suds off of my arms with a paper towel. Stephen appeared a bit vexed, but I didn’t let that bother me. We were allowed to have different opinions on this. I saw where he was coming from, and was partially ecstatic that he cared about me enough to risk conflict, but I didn’t actually feel like fighting. 

It seemed like there was a debate going on in his head, so I continued cleaning my arm. 

“Sorry,” he said as I threw the wet towel away. “I’m not trying to tell you what to do. Your life is something you have to navigate yourself. I’m only worried about how you’ll handle everything tomorrow.”

“And what does that mean?”

“Rory,” he sighed. “I’m not implying that you can’t handle yourself. It’s just that. . . you’re going to have to talk to your mum and dad tomorrow as if it’s the last time you’ll ever see them. Not that it will be- but preparing yourself that way would be the best course of action. I think that it’s going to be difficult for you. I want to help you figure this out.”

What he was saying made sense. I had realized it on some level, but he was bringing it front and center. No matter how hard I tried to push all of those bad thoughts away, they would just bubble back up until I dealt with them. A game plan was needed for tomorrow. I needed to figure out how to make my parents let go for good, and how to let myself come to grips with that. If Stephen wanted to help, then that’s where we’d start.

“I’m sorry for snapping,” I said. He did a one-shoulder shrug and climbed down.

“I don’t blame you. I can be a bit dense sometimes.”

“Yeah.” He could be. “You want to help me with my parents?”

“If you want it.”

“So,” I said, walking out of the kitchen. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and followed me.

“Let’s talk.”


End file.
